A Thousand Years to Live
by Nienna Nir
Summary: It's been a bit too long since his last case and Sherlock turns to the telly to stave off boredom, surprising John in his viewing choices.


He stumbled in through the front door of 221B Baker Street with a sigh, swinging the shopping as he leaned against the door with his shoulder, struggling against the bitter wind that sent a sprawl of snow across the entry floor. Dr. John Watson slumped back against the frame with a groan. The weather had turned in the time since he'd left the flat and the cold was making his shoulder ache. He grumbled as he pushed himself up the stairs, fumbling with the door handle. His first instinct had been to call Sherlock to get the door for him but he thought better of it. The sound of the telly made him realize instantly that not only would his flat mate be annoyed over the interruption, he'd be highly unlikely to even hear him.

"I got those biscuits you wanted," John huffed, dumping the shopping on the kitchen table between Sherlock's microscope and a bowl of some unidentifiable gelatinous substance. "You could mention these things before I leave the flat instead of waiting until I'm in the check-out line to text me." Sherlock gave a noncommittal grunt, completely absorbed in his program. John smiled in spite of himself, pushing aside a jar of fingers to make room for the milk in the fridge.

A familiar grating, wheezing sound met his ears and he paused, his brow knitting for a moment. He left the shopping on the counter, crossing the kitchen to peer out into the sitting room with a perplexed expression.

"Are you watching... Doctor Who?" he asked in surprise.

"Yes, what of it?" Sherlock demanded, staring transfixed at the screen.

"It's..." John paused, blinking at him blankly for a long moment. Sherlock's eyes never once strayed from the screen. "Well, it's just not the sort of thing I thought would interest you."

"What would give you that idea?" Sherlock snorted derisively, wrapping his arms around his shoulder, his knees pulled to his chest, making him look even more gangly.

"Well by all accounts it leaves holes in its scientific theories big enough to drive a lorry though," John remarked, glancing at the screen. "Don't you find that irritating?" Sherlock grunted, his attention still fixated on the telly. John shook his head with a smile, turning back into the kitchen.

"So where are you?" He asked. "it's the marathon, isn't it?"

"Rory just died," Sherlock answered, his eyes narrowing in concentration. There was a long pause as John stared back at him.

"All right," Watson clipped. "That tells me absolutely nothing."

"The second floor!" Sherlock shouted at the screen, waving his arms. "You idiot! The second floor, look, just look!" John let out a snort of amusement, walking back out to the sitting room. He stared at the telly for a few moments, blinking in confusion.

"You have it figured out already?" he blurted out before he could stop himself. Sherlock shot him a withering look before turning back to glower angrily at the program.

"It's so painfully transparent it makes my head hurt!" Sherlock insisted, pointing at the screen, letting his knees fall against the arms of his chair. "How can anyone with nine hundred years of accumulated knowledge be that incredibly thick?!"

"Why are you watching it then?" John asked, trying to mask his teasing tone.

"At least this one isn't nearly as bad as the one with the Angels!" Sherlock snorted.

"What about the Angels?" John questioned.

"The Aplands have two heads!" Sherlock spewed angrily. "Two! what sort of intelligent person wouldn't see that immediately? Even you're not that stupid, John!" John smothered his laughter.

"These writers are idiots," Sherlock sulked.

"You're jealous, aren't you?" John struggled to hide his smile as Sherlock's baleful glare swung in his direction.

"Of what?" he demanded icily.

"Of the Doctor," John accused. "Of the fact that his intellect and knowledge is far superior to yours and he still manages to get everything wrong half the time because he's not paying attention." Sherlock huffed irritably.

"See! See! what did I tell you!" Sherlock shouted at the telly. "There is no second floor! You great blundering idiot! No wonder you're all extinct!"

John choked back his laughter, shaking his head as he went back into the kitchen to put away the tins. It was the most animated he'd seen Sherlock in a couple of days. Maybe it would keep the detective's aberrant behavior in check until his next case. One thing was certain; He was definitely looking forward to the next time Rory died.


End file.
